Since the year end is approaching, it is time to continue with more of Greatbong’s annual awards for 2006. Readers may already recall the conferral of the “Howitzer” prize for excellence in journalism 2006 to IndiaDaily. Here are some more achievement awards, in the same vein.
Kindly vote for Greatbong.net in the category “Best India Blog” at Asia Blog Awards.
“Aha I knew this would happen all along. Praise be to Allah. Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston are going to divorce. Whitney is all mine now. Bobby Brown is lucky—I don’t have to kill him any longer with a rusty drug syringe as I had planned.”
Osama Bin Laden was ecstatic. Throwing his head back carelessly, he started crooning: “Though each time I try, I break down and cry, Cause I rather be home feeling blue, So I am saving all my love for youuuuuuuuuu….”
“What the f are you talking about?” snapped Mullah Omar “Can’t I hear my favorite Eric Clapton song Virgins in Heaven without having to be disturbed by your bleatings? By the way, what does Whitney Houston have to do with you?”
As the opening credits of “Antarmahal” (Views of the Inner Chamber) fade away and the sound of a creaking bed assails the ears, the viewer discerns, in the semi-darkness, Jaggu-dada (Jackie Shroff not Jagmohan Dalmiya), the Bengali zamindar, motoring away romantically like an oil drill while below the supine figure of Soha Ali Khan (playing the Bengali zamindar’s second wife) lies still, impervious to his copulatory charms.
And then the zamindar burps. And seeks to excuse himself by saying that the “papad” he had for dinner must have been fried in bad oil. And keeps on sawing away.
Oh what a wonderful sex life Bengalis had. The operative word is “had”—things are obviously quite different now in the Bong bedroom.
Namely that there is no second wife.
Whether 19th century Bengal had the best of times or the worst of times we know not, but if we are to trust Rituporno Ghosh’s “Antarmahal” (a sex-ed up adaptation of Tarashankar’s “Protima” ) it surely was the most debauched of times.
A few things I did not know before Government Of India ‘s blanket-ban on Blogger/Typepad. — a ban whose supposed purpose we learn is to keep SIMI terrorists from passing love-notes between themselves.
1. SIMI-ians exclusively use Blogger and Typepad to communicate. Which is why these are the only blogging platforms that are blocked. SIMI stays clear of WordPress (too dynamic for static fundamentalists), Rediff blogs (because they don’t like the template), O3 Indiatimes (because even they disapprove of a paper that sells editorial space), and Yahoo 360 (yes even SIMI activists have some sense). And like everyone else, they have never heard of MSN Spaces.
2. SIMI activists may handle RDX and gelatin with dexterity but have trouble understanding the concept of proxies by which website-blocking can easily be circumvented. As a result, a ban on blogger totally brings them down to their knees—especially when they don’t get their daily fix of desihotties.blogspot.com
3. SIMI terrorists do not know the use of bulletin boards —the gazillions of them that are on the Net. Hence cutting off blogger/typepad will reduce them to headless chickendom.
4. Enforcing a ban on Blogger/Typepad/Geocities will fool the SIMI people into thinking that India has officially become Pakistan (where access to many blogs are blocked) and now that their mission has been accomplished, they may let their guard down.
It’s a question we all keep asking ourselves. Especially when we see countries some plagued by civil wars, some with populations of about a million, do it every four years.
The question is obvious: why do we have the worst record in the world (well almost) when it comes to qualifying for the World Cup?
It’s not that we were always like this. Mohun Bagan were the first Asian side to beat an European team in 1911. We missed qualifying for the 1950 World Cup only because we were used to playing barefoot and the World Cup stipulated the wearing of shoes. Throughout the 50s and the 60s, India remained one of the top Asian soccer powers.
But by the 80s and 90s , things had reached their present nadir. PSV Eindhoven, a club team from the Netherlands, were thrashing India in friendlies—-10 goals per match were pumped past the hapless Indians. In the three matches we played against them, India found the back of PSV’s net only once (as far as I can remember) and that too from the foot of Chibuzor, a Nigerian first XI discard who together with Cheema Okerie (also a Nigerian never-been) and Jamshed Nassiri (Iran) were the “stars” of the Calcutta maidan firmament along with some home-grown men like Bidesh Bose and Prasun Banerjee.
One of the things I have struggled to understand is the reason for the viral appeal of this man—-Himesh Reshammiya. You cannot surf channels without a glimpse of his visage: the faux-stud look, the beard, the baseball cap and the cockiness. If ubiquity is the measure of success, then this man has reached the top—from pan shops to discos Himesh Reshammiya’s music and his uber-nasal twang blares at you ceaselessly, like the agonizing moans of a freshly castrated donkey. (not that I have ever heard one–just an intelligent guess as to how it would sound like)
So what is it–what is the reason? Is it that nasal accent? Well if that was the case, then Kumar Sanu would be the reigning king today—-but all he got was the very healthy Kunika and a hysterical wife who comes on the telly and says “Sanu… bhogoban sob dekhta hain” in the worst Bongo Hindee.
Is it his sweet deal with T-series by which he is being aggressively promoted, much to the chagrin of people like Anu Malik? But wait—the last time T-series got behind a bearded, smart-alec music-director with pretensions of being a singer (think back to Nadeem in a pilot uniform violating “O Mere Dil Ke Chain”) it ended with a dead body and a fugitive. But not so now.
Is it his mixture of qawwali and modern beats? But even Altaf Raja tried doing it with “Kar Lo Pyar” , “Thora Intezar Ka Maza Lijiye” and the very groovy “Yeh Raat Hain Rangeen Sharabi” —-and what happened to him? Possibly doing live entertainment at Mithun-da’s monarch hotel along with Vikas Bhalla and Anaida.
Well finally, the real reason is out.
An RTDM exclusive. Remember you heard this here first. I was one of the privileged few that sat through the premier of ” Da Vinci Da Gupt Katha” at the Dannes (pronounced Daance as in Disco Daance) festival held every year at Ooty—-and in a word (okay two words) —it rocked.
Mithun Chakraborty, the greatest actor alive, plays Krishnan Iyer, Ph.D. No he is not the nariyel paani wala from Agneepath but a professor of symbiology at Lund University. The movie opens with Krishnan Iyer delivering a lecture to the brightest students of the world in Paris explaining the origin of the symbol “420″.
At the same time, the curator of the Louvre museum, Kamana (Rakhi Sawant) is being shot (using a gun that is) by a mysterious albino assailant (Bob Cristo) who keeps on whispering “Main Hindoostan ki tubahi kar doonga”. He walks away strangely without finishing the act —- leaving the voluptuous curator three-quarters dead. Knowing she has only a few minutes to live, Ms. Sawant’s character starts stripping in super slow motion—desperate to send a message to the only man who understands nudity, now that Raj Kapoor is dead.
[Originally published November 13, 2005. Reposted because of technical difficulties experienced by many in accessing the old post]
It is with a heavy heart that I have to announce the death of an old friend.
Desibaba is no more.
Desi Baba Desi Babes
Is closed till further notice.
Copyright Â© 1998 – 2005 DesiBaba.com
For those who came in late, Desibaba was the original Indian porn site. But it wasnt merely a “porn site”—it was a landmark in desi pop culture.
Let me explain.
I know you are a busy person. But no matter how busy you are—-boss standing over your shoulder, wife breathing down your neck, three deadlines at 12 tonight, a baby in a burning building: put everything down and sit back.
And read this(Wild, Wetty Dreams) (link via India Uncut) [Update: the article has since been edited with wetty being replaced by witty. Some samples of the original are below. For the original unedited version, (which was up on Hindustan Times Tabloid): please go here] [Update 2: The HT link is now dead--but thankfully the original unedited version is still available. ]
Yes sirs and madams, it has finally happened. The cataclysm we had all been anticipating. The Ingliss language (Indian English) that originated from the love poems of the famous Bangladeshi (yes don’t point out the contradiction please) brothers Horizon and Verizon on Bangla bulletin boards, gathered steam with “May I do fransip with you?” on orkut scrap books and Yahoo messenger, and then spilled out onto Shaadi.com matrimonials has finally made it to the main stream media.
Many many years hence…
Spontaneous displays of grief were witnessed out all over the city as the death of Imran Kissme, the doyen of Hindi movies, was announced on TV India. At 12:00 midnight, Dr. Rekha Sexena (who this correspondent has gathered has been having a hot affair with her gardener for a year now), chief medical officer at the private hospital he had been admitted to for lip-reconstruction surgery, announced to the assembled press that Mr Kissme passed away peacefully in his sleep of causes unknown.